Brothers in Arms
by njbrennan
Summary: Canon/AU one-shot: A shamefully late contribution to the EAST Alliance on Tumblr. Major Strallan and Private Branson are involved in a bloody battle, and when they seek refuge in a Belgian cottage, the two men have a heart-to-heart discussion about what, and who, matters most in their lives. All characters belong to Fellowes. Long live EAST!


A/N: Hello! This is a terribly delayed contribution to the EAST Alliance Day on Tumblr, but I suppose late is better than never haha! I have just returned home from England, Belgium, and Italy (hence the delay) and while I was there, I visited the Menin Gate in Ypres (a monument to Commonwealth soldiers who were killed in WW1, but never found), as well as the farm of one of my family members in Flanders where my cousins hid British and American soldiers from the Germans in one of their barns. Perched on the top of a hill, the German army sprayed bullets over the hill in the hopes that some would hit the barn, but they were chased off after some time, thankfully, and no casualties were suffered.

So, for this ficlet, I am going to send our beloved men to my family's farm in Flanders during World War I. Anthony is a major in the British Army and Tom, being from Yorkshire, is under his command (let's say that he didn't have a heart condition and never staged any sort of protest against the British Army). They'll be hiding out in the cottage from the Germans and will have a heart-to-heart discussion about what matters most in their lives.

I hope you enjoy it and I'd love to hear form you about it :)

Love live EAST!

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_Spring of 1918—Flanders, Belgium_

Winter had melted away from the earth, replaced by an eager spring. Flowers spurted from the earth, birds flew anew in the warm, blue sky, and the earth altogether seemed to be teeming with new life. Except of course, where death haunted each field and farmhouse, casting a dark pall over the bright land.

The War had been brutal, long, and unlike anything Major Anthony Strallan had ever seen in his many years of military service. Countless numbers of young men: dead or mutilated. Even those that survived the trenches or the fields were tormented with memories of it in the most catastrophic ways when they returned home.

The baronet-turned-officer scanned the battlefield, watching helplessly as young men under his command dropped to the ground, their eyes closing for the last time before their bodies slumped to the earth. Shells exploded all around him, flinging dirt and blood in the air. It was so loud, he realized, that he couldn't even hear his own screeching voice calling for his men to retreat.

Their numbers were dwindling with each moment and time was of the essence. With his pistol in hand, Anthony grabbed the young enlisted men by the scruffs of their collars, yanking them up from the ground, pushing them ahead of him.

"Retreat! Retreat! Come on, men!" he called out in vain. No one heard him.

Amid the warfare, something pierced him in the shoulder, and a shell exploded near the Englishman, its blast knocking him from his tall legs and sending him flying into the air. A patch of grass broke his fall, but the impact still rendered him unconscious nonetheless.

Major Anthony Strallan would have been left for dead among the fields of the dying, for the numbers in the East Yorkshire Regiment decreased and scattered as the numbers of Germans advanced. His bloody and unconscious body was indistinguishable from scores of his brethren around him. However, the lone Irishman in a regiment of Yorkshire-born had witnessed his commanding officer's body flung around the field, landing unceremoniously in the distance. Instinctually, Private Tom Branson took off for his C.O., dodging bullets and bodies alike, firing his gun in the distance like mad.

He reached Anthony's body and rolled him over. The baronet's eyes flickered open, blue contrasting with reddened skin. Gasps escaped him and his hands reached out for Tom's with desperation.

"Private, help," Anthony exhaled with a wince before succumbing to unconsciousness once more.

Tom looked around, searching for a way out, for a path that led from this madness. His eyes sharpened as he spotted a small, unoccupied hill just a short distance from the mud where Anthony lay and so he crouched. In one hasty motion, the Irishman tucked his shoulder against Anthony's stomach, grabbed his legs, and stood before taking off running with the officer dangling on his shoulder.

Tom Branson sprinted across the battlefield, running but not knowing any ultimate destination. He only hoped that his legs would subsist till they reached relative safety. No telling when or where that would be.

Time passed, Branson's legs still marching forward, one in front of the other, as the exceptionally tall officer on his shoulder remained unconscious. Hours passed, maybe; minutes, perhaps. Tom had no clue. He just kept running. Crazed was he to escape the hell he had seen, to bring his kind and gentle C.O. to safety.

The sounds of explosions and the cries of dying men had faded away, replaced by an uncomfortable silence. Tom knew what silence meant: it was a time to let one's guard down, a time to be surprised. So many of their bloodiest battles started with silence.

His legs were growing weary, carrying himself, his pack, and Major Strallan's limp body; each additional step was akin to pulling lead.

In the distance, a small, humble cottage appeared. Flemish, no doubt, for the reddened brick and tiled roof was a sure sign; he had seen a lot of those lately, far from his homeland in Ireland. Tom heard himself sigh with relief and he hastened his step towards it. He wasn't sure how much longer he could carry on.

Upon arriving at the door, Tom eased Anthony off of his shoulder, which now throbbed and ached in pain. The baronet grumbled, his eyes fluttering, though still unconscious, but he was apparently alive, thank God. Tom knocked on the door and waited, his back turned to the cottage as he kept watch for any signs of German company.

An elderly Flemish woman opened the door just a crack. Her eyes were as dark as the earth, with hair to match, pulled back in a bun. She wore simple clothes, the attire of a countrywoman: an apron made of flax and a blouse buttoned to her neck.

"Hallo? Kan ik je helpen?" she whispered nervously.

Tom hesitated. Her language sounded German, but he couldn't tell. They were still in Belgium, weren't they? Either way, they were as good as dead if he didn't ask her help.

"My name is Private Tom Branson and I'm in the British Army. My commanding officer here was wounded in a battle in Flanders. Could we seek shelter here, ma'am, even just for the night?" Tom asked, however pointless it might be to ramble off in English to this woman of a different tongue.

The woman opened the door just an inch more and saw Anthony Strallan's limp and bloody body sprawled out near her bushes. Her eyes watered and she turned them back to Tom.

"Engels?" she asked.

"'Engels?' Oh, English, yes!" Tom blurted out, nodding his head enthusiastically. He didn't bother correcting her, informing her that he was decidedly _not_ English. It didn't matter. What mattered was getting out of the open and getting Major Strallan the medical attention he needed.

With the door fully open, the Belgian woman nodded to Tom, inviting him in, and he promptly hoisted Anthony back onto his shoulder. With many grunts and hollers, Anthony's unconscious body was eventually laid onto a settee in the Belgian's sitting room. It was the first time in God knows how long that Tom had the chance to get a good look at his C.O.

The man was bruised and had cuts and scrapes around his face and neck; there was a rather large bump on his right temple, from the impact of the fall, no doubt, and a patch of his uniform was missing from his right shoulder, instead showing a clump of mangled, bloody flesh and chunks of debris.

Tom rushed to Anthony's side and pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket, pressing it to Anthony's bleeding shoulder. Immediately upon the contact, the baronet winced in pain and his blue eyes bulged open.

"Ahhh!" he screamed. "Please, no!"

"I'm sorry, Major Strallan. We just need to stop the bleeding," Tom told Anthony, discarding the now soaked cloth and fishing for a new one in his pack.

The Belgian woman returned soon with fresh towels and a basin of steaming hot water. She shooed Tom away, though not without some protests from the latter, and tenderly pulled Anthony's green uniform jacket from his body. The baronet moaned and groaned in pain, yelping at every movement and pleading with the woman to cease her care.

As Tom watched on, helpless, the scene seemed to last hours. Each layer of clothing was peeled off from his commanding officer's body, revealing more scarlet-soaked fabric underneath, until the baronet's mangled and bloody skin appeared. His shoulder was completely torn apart, a bullet's handiwork made worse by the impact of tumbling to the ground and landing on the earth.

The woman pushed Anthony forward to inspect his back for other wounds. The bullet appeared to have gone clean through his arm, which, at this point, was merciful as there weren't any surgeons around and Tom suspected that the Belgian countrywoman wasn't learned in such practices.

She continued cleaning Anthony's shoulder, wiping the blood away and clearing it of dirt and grass. Patching it with gauze and bandages, the Belgian eased the baronet onto his back, laying warm blankets over him and fetching him some warm milk.

Her care complete, she departed, leaving Tom and Anthony alone in her sitting room.

"How are you feeling, Major?" Tom inquired as he sat down on an adjacent chair. His jacket had been shed, as had his tie, and the man was sweating profusely. Still, a sense of calm settled on the Irishman as he realized that he was in a safe place, far from Germans and guns and bombs for the first time in almost a year.

"A bit sore," was Anthony's hoarse reply, his attempt at a joke feeble. "And you? You're not wounded, are you?"

Tom gave himself a once over and apart from Anthony's dried blood on his uniform, there was nary a scratch on his body.

"I'm fine, Major. You just worry about yourself right now."

Anthony's head turned from Tom and his eyes closed, as though they were recalling something painful. "How…how many do you think made it out? I called for retreat, but no one heard me. The Germans…they were everywhere. I…I should have…done more…"

Tom, too, closed his eyes, remembering. "Major," he protested. "You did all you could, sir. No one will blame you for what happened."

Anthony's gaze shot up towards Tom, his eyes reddened and watery. "I will," came his grave response before consciousness proved to be too much and sleep overcame him.

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Anthony awoke in the middle of the night, the cool air pouring in from the open latticed window. Night bugs chirped and trilled, and a dozing Irishman stirred uncomfortably in his chair.

"Major?" Tom whispered with sleepiness still lacing his voice. "Are you awake?"

"I am, Private."

"How are you feeling?"

"A bit worse for the wear, but I think I'll live. My arm, though…I can't seem to move it."

Tom's breath hitched. This wasn't just a cut or scrape; a far worse fate had fallen upon Major Strallan.

"I'm sure it's just recovering still; give it time to heal, sir."

Anthony nodded his head vaguely, not daring to hope more than he should. "Right…right," he mumbled. "I wanted to thank you, Private…_Tom_," Anthony corrected, his tone warm. "For bringing me to safety. I'm not sure what happened; the last thing I remember was calling for retreat and then hearing an awfully loud explosion. But it was you who rescued me, wasn't it?"

"Indeed, sir. But anyone would have done it."

"You're being too humble, Tom."

A smile played at the Irishman's lips. "Perhaps, sir," he replied, to which Anthony chuckled lightly.

Anthony hadn't known Tom Branson very long, maybe less than a year. While the baronet had been involved in the War since 1914, just after the garden party at Downton Abbey, the Irishman had avoided conscription for much longer. However, his luck had run out in the summer of 1917 when he received those fateful papers and joined the ranks among the East Yorkshire Regiment under Major Anthony Strallan's command. The two men got along well enough, though they had never spent a significant period of time together, what with the regiment being 120 men strong and a war raging on around them.

Still, in those passing encounters, brief though they were, Tom always got the sense that Anthony wanted to talk to him, to ask him how life had been back at the Abbey, how _certain people_ were faring. The baronet, however, never did, always being the picture of decorum and professionalism.

"Have you…have you heard anything from home?" Anthony asked after a long silence.

The smile that had been playing on Tom's lips grew wider. Anthony Strallan was mustering the courage to ask of home, perhaps to ask of a particular lady's circumstances.

"I have, in fact," Tom informed him. He turned to his pack and pulled out a bundle of letters tied with twine. "Mrs. Hughes, Mr. Carson, Anna, and even Lady Grantham have written me, telling me all about life at the Abbey. The house has been converted into a convalescent home for officers, you know."

"Really?" Anthony asked in astonishment, leaning back on the settee. It was hard to believe that the house he had wined and dined in at many an extravagant party was now a hospital of sorts. "My, what strange times in which we live. Has anyone else written?"

Tom's gaze turned nervously up to Anthony's. "Hmm? I'm sorry?"

Anthony smiled with abundant warmth, living vicariously through the young man. "Tom, although I have 120 men under my care, I do take time to notice their activities now and then. Don't make me believe that the letters you devour over and over again are from Mr. Carson. You retreat to your barracks quicker for some letters than others, and always have a reply written for those before the next morning. So…come on…who is she?"

Tom Branson suddenly felt very hot, his skin burning despite the cool, Belgian air seeping into the sitting room. "She, uh, is just a…friend. A nurse, actually."

"Oh, lovely! And she's from Yorkshire?"

"Aye," came Tom's curt reply. He didn't want to breach this topic with his C.O., especially because of Anthony's affiliation with the Crawley clan.

"Tell me about her, then. I need to hear about young love, Tom; it warms my old heart," Anthony prodded.

"I'd really rather n-"

"Private," the baronet said more sternly. "With all this death and misery around us, a good love story would do me good."

Tom knew when he was beat. "All right. She's a beautiful young woman, full of wonder and surprise. She has the darkest hair and the bluest eyes and the warmest heart. She thinks little of herself, always putting others ahead, always thinking of them first and foremost. And she's political, which I admire greatly…always talking about the vote for women and class struggles. Never afraid to speak her mind, my dear Syb-"

But Tom halted himself abruptly. His…relationship, if one could call it that, was a secret still, the scandal of a nobleman's daughter falling for the chauffeur still too great, even during war when once fortified boundaries seemed to dissolve. He and Sybil were just friends, of that he had been truthful towards Anthony, and although he wanted more, much more, Tom still accepted her friendly letters with ardor. And Anthony knew Sybil, and her father, Robert, and Tom didn't know quite know what Anthony would do with this information.

Perhaps someday, Sybil would want him the way Tom wanted her. Until then, he would wait.

But despite Tom's abrupt stop, Anthony caught on regardless. "'Syb?' As in Lady Sybil?" the baronet asked in bewilderment.

Tom nodded his head solemnly. "Yes, though we're just friends, sir," he added for good measure.

"Friends? Really? I've never seen a man speak of a friend quite like that, Tom," Anthony pressed, his blue eyes sparkling in the blue evening light.

Tom stood and peered out the window at the rolling hills of Flanders, at the small garden and barn nearby, everything still and calm. "Yes, well, it's complicated, sir."

Anthony wanted to join him, but was confined to the bed, unable to move his aching body. "Yes, I can imagine. I should think that Lord Grantham wouldn't be too keen on his youngest daughter marrying outside of her class. Though, personally, I have no qualms against it.

"When my cousin, Jane, married her father's valet, Edward, all hell broke loose. But after a time, especially after their son was born, my family (my uncle in particular) came around and they simply saw them as the Graysons. They've been married fifteen years now, five beautiful children between them. Love should not have a class, Tom. Remember that."

Branson turned around and smiled at his commanding officer, speaking to him very much like a friend.

"You sound like you know a lot about love, Major," Tom quipped.

Anthony scoffed playfully. "Far from it. I know very little about love and even less about women."

Tom crossed the sitting room and reclaimed his chair nearer to Anthony. "That can't be true. You had taken up with Lady Edith before the war, hadn't you? Wasn't it rather serious? Talks of engagement and the like…"

It was Anthony's turn to nod solemnly. "Yes, well, her interest in me was more of a game than anything resembling true affection…"

"That can't be true, Major." That didn't sound like the Edith that Tom knew, not the same woman who bounced across the entryway to meet the baronet for a drive, or the same woman who, in violation of all kinds of propriety, interrupted a dinner conversation to speak to him.

"But it is. Lady Mary told me at the garden party before the war that Lady Edith was trying to avoid some old codger, that the poor sap was planning to propose to her in front of her family. I can't believe I was so foolish to believe that she felt the same as I did…"

"Major, don't you know that Ladies Mary and Edith bicker worse than fiends? Lady Sybil speaks of it often in her letters, in more veiled words, of course. I'd wager that Lady Mary was just trying to hurt Lady Edith in some way."

Anthony's mouth gaped. "Do you mean that?"

"Of course I do. I can tell you that at that garden party, after you left, I have never seen Lady Edith so downtrodden. And I don't think that was because of a game gone awry."

Anthony was silent for a moment. He felt a terrible mixture of regret and hope. He had thrown away a young woman's love before, but perhaps it could be salvaged yet.

"Well, it's pointless now," Anthony muttered bitterly. Gesturing towards his arm, he added, "Now look at me. Lady Edith wouldn't want a cripple twice her age."

"Love shouldn't care about disability or age, Major," Tom told him, his words and tone mirroring what Anthony had only just told him.

A watery smile quivered on the baronet's lips. "How is she?" he inquired.

Tom settled further in his chair and told Anthony all about Edith, about how he had taught her to drive, how she had assisted a farmer on the estate with his tractor, how she helped out with the officers staying at Downton when she could, how the war had transformed her for the better and brought her out of her shell.

All the while, Anthony Strallan was the picture of happiness, despite the hole in his shoulder. Thoughts of Edith, which had plagued him for the past four years, seemed to take on a new light, a fresh one.

"Would you write a letter to Edith for me?" Anthony asked after Tom had finished recanting his tales of Edith. "Not now, obviously, but I'm not sure if or when my arm will heal. But if it doesn't, will you write to her, an apology of sorts? I want to make amends and ask forgiveness for deserting her at the garden party."

Tom grinned at the change in Major Strallan's heart, in his outlook even in the past few minutes. It was astonishing, the sort of balm that love provides a man, even with a hole in his shoulder.

"I'd be very honored to do that for you, Major. But your arm _will_ heal and you'll just have write Lady Edith on your own."

"I can only hope. And you, Tom," the baronet changed tones. "You should consider writing what you really feel to Lady Sybil. If the war has taught me anything, it's that we never know how much time we get on this earth, and if you can spend it with the one you love, then all the better."

The Irishman nodded thoughtfully. "How is that you can speak of such things when you admit that you know nothing of love?"

Anthony laughed, muted though it was, as he didn't wish to wake their Belgian angel. "I'm rather skilled at playing the old sage now and again. Quite an actor in the trade, I suppose!"

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After spending a week at the Belgian woman's cottage, Anthony was well enough to make a journey to an Allied base where he was rushed to England for emergency surgery on his arm. He and Tom parted with a renewed sense of hope, though the latter had to continue on to the front once again. The surgery worked only partially, allowing the baronet to move it about, but it never gained its full range of motion ever again. Anthony spent the remainder of the war recovering in England, later at the convalescent home at Downton Abbey with both Ladies Edith and Sybil caring for him. It was the happiest he had been in years.

In those nights, still and calm as Yorkshire nights so often are, Edith would slip down from her room to visit Anthony's cot in the drawing room. There were nine other officers, so she had to be quiet. This, however, was not a difficult task once she removed her slippers.

"Are you awake?" she asked tonight, as she had done every night for the past few months, her voice a low whisper.

"I am, sweet one," Anthony murmured, pulling the sheets away from the cot so Edith could snuggle in, which she promptly did. Her body was warm against his, her skin was smooth, and her hair smelled of lavender. She wrapped her arms around his waist, and Anthony sighed with delight.

"This is top-notch care I've been receiving here, Edie. Do you do this with all of your charges?" Anthony teased, pulling his love even tighter against his chest.

Her lips grazed the straight line of his jaw. "Only one charge in particular: dashing, tall, blond, eyes that pierce me. He's rather kind, too, and witty and well-read…all fabulous qualities, if I may say."

Despite his best efforts, Anthony felt a surge of masculine pride. "You know, there was a question I intended to ask you all those years ago, but I foolishly left the party before my time."

"Yes," Edith blurted out. She had replayed that day over and over in her mind for the past four years; she knew precisely which question he had planned to ask. She had had an answer ready for just as long.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Yes! I say yes!"

"I was going to give you some time to think about it, my sweet one. I don't even a ring yet, lying in here all day," Anthony chuckled.

"I don't care," she protested, sitting up on her elbow and placing her other hand on Anthony's stomach. "We've already been separated far longer than we should have, and God knows you've been through more than any person should during this wretched war. I just don't want to waste any more time, Anthony. I want to start our happiness right now."

Anthony was beside himself. He stroked Edith's rosy cheeks with his thumb and in the most tender manner, the baronet touched his lips to hers. A few precious moments melted away, their lips molding to the others, their hands becoming tangled in the other's hair, until Anthony pulled away.

"Goodness, Edie, my happiness started the moment you walked into my life."

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"How are you feeling today, Major?" Nurse Crawley asked as she fluffed Anthony's pillows and peeled back his pajama shirt to inspect the incision in his shoulder. "Your arm seems to be healing rather nicely."

"I'm doing very well today, Nurse Crawley. Better than ever!" Anthony replied, his tone lighter than air. Then, in a hushed tone, he added, "I'm engaged, you know. Lady Edith accepted my proposal last night."

Sybil, who had known of Edith's feelings towards the baronet for quite some time, and only recently learned of his towards her sister, was ecstatic.

"Major, that's wonderful!" she cheered. "We could use a little more love in this world these days."

A bashful smile crept up on Anthony's lips. "Yes, I'm thrilled, without a doubt. We want to wait to marry until the war ends…and…" He trailed off, unsure whether he should continue.

Sybil's blue gaze pressed Anthony to carry on. "And?"

"And for Private Branson to return from the front," he added before he could stop himself. He didn't like to meddle, but he was feeling like a romantic fool nowadays, the doing of that gorgeous strawberry blonde running here somewhere.

The young woman looked as though she had seen a ghost. "Tom?" she asked in bewilderment. "Why would you wait to get married until he returns?"

Anthony shifted in the bed to allow Sybil to rest on the edge of it; clearly, she was taken aback by the mere mention of the Irishman's name. _A good sign_, Anthony mused.

"Well, Nurse Crawley, I never told this to you, but my arm…"

"Yes, I know you were shot in Flanders and were knocked down by a shell in a field," Sybil told him. She knew the stories of each one of her officers, their highs and their lows, their hopes and their fears, how they were injured…

"Yes, but you don't know the rest of the story…about how I was rescued."

"You were rescued?"

"Indeed…by a very brave Irishman," Anthony explained, reaching for Sybil's hand with his stronger one as he saw her lips quiver.

"Tom? It was Tom, wasn't it?"

Anthony nodded. "He saw me fall among the carnage, and in an instant, with no thought of his own safety, he ran towards me, hoisted me on his shoulder, and ran the two of us for God knows how many miles. He found a little Belgian cottage and we stayed there for almost a week while I recovered.

"I would not be here if it weren't for Tom Branson. I owe him my life," Anthony told her, squeezing her hand, trying to stress his point. "He's a good man, one of the best. I understand that you and he are good friends?"

A smile graced Sybil's face in an instant. "We are. I know it's not…conventional, but he and I have been exchanging letters since he left for the war. I try to fill him in on life at Downton, so he won't feel as homesick over there."

"Lady Sybil," Anthony addressed her in more formal title. "I know it's not my place to say, but I have never heard a young man speak of a young woman in quite the same way that Tom speaks of you. He really does love you, all of you, your mind and beliefs and spirit. It's rare, the love Tom Branson has for you.

"I'm not trying to pressure you into anything, and I know Tom would want your heart to come to him on its own accord, but I would not give up on him if I were you. He's a remarkable young man who loves you dearly. That doesn't come along very often, in _any_ class, my dear."

Sybil nodded, glad of this knowledge and insight into the chauffeur she had grown to care for over the years. Perhaps Anthony was right. Tom loved her with every ounce of his being, and he loved every part of her. And they did get along swimmingly, be it in a letter or in person.

"I _have_ missed him lately and I find myself thinking about him often," she admitted.

Anthony grinned with satisfaction. "Let the heart roam where it pleases, Lady Sybil. Anyway, I should probably go for my morning walk. A young nurse's helper is expecting my company shortly."

With a kiss to her hand, Anthony clumsily got out of bed and stood, leaving Sybil alone, smiling to herself in the most wonderful way.

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_November of 1918—Yorkshire, England_

A war had ended. An Armistice had been reached. Their men were coming home.

Sybil had received a letter just after the Armistice from Private Branson, informing her that he would be home in just a few short weeks. She cried when she read it, relieved to her core that her Tom was going to return safely. With excitement quivering in her fingertips, she replied that she was glad of his imminent return and that Lord Grantham had a job waiting for him if he wanted it.

For weeks and months after her talk with Anthony, Sybil had allowed herself to explore her heart's feelings towards Tom Branson. Of course, this was difficult to do without the man in question present in front of her. But his letters were a fair substitute; he really did write with such voice. His words touched her and once she let her guards down, Sybil Crawley realized that she had fallen in love with the Irishman, perhaps even long before.

With each passing letter and each subsequent month, the youngest daughter of the Earl of Grantham summoned the courage she would need to confess everything to Tom, to shed her old way of life and trade it in for a new one, daresay a better one.

So, on the morning of Tom's arrival, Sybil woke far earlier than she usually did, even as a nurse, and dressed. Anna, her maid, was surprised to see her mistress up at such an hour, but Sybil was the picture of blissfulness. She had an added spring to her step, a bounce to her walk. And as she flitted down the long banister of the Abbey, Anna couldn't help but giggle.

The milk train was due at any minute, and Sybil smoothed down her teal frock and jacket, fidgeting with anticipation. All of a sudden, as the train came charging at the station, whistling and smoking, nerves gripped her and the confidence she had possessed only moments prior had been replaced by a crippling fear.

Was she doing the right thing? Would Tom still love her, even after all this time? Would he still want her, a life with her, after what he had seen in war?

But all doubts, all questions, all worries dissolved the instant Tom Branson climbed down the ladder of the train and his blue, blue eyes met Sybil's.

Her breath hitched, and her stomach danced about in her body. Her Tom was alive and well. Dressed in his uniform, he looked older, but he still hadn't lost that boyish, Irish charm that she missed, that one had to see in person, not just on paper.

Sybil couldn't even stop herself. The moment a grin spread on Tom's face and her name began to form on his lips, she ran to him, throwing her arms around the man and holding him as though he were the source of life itself.

"Tom!" she exclaimed.

He was caught off guard, as would any man who was greeted by the woman he had pined after for four years. But as his arms wrapped slowly of their own accord around Sybil's waist, and he smelled her delicious perfume, Tom Branson realized what was happening.

"You called me Tom, not Branson or Private," he observed, whispering softly into her ear.

Sybil knew then that perhaps she had been too forward. But the tightness of Tom's hands around the small of her back and her hip encouraged her to say, "I missed you, Tom, and I thought…well, it's going to sound silly now…"

He leaned away from her a bit to see her face. "No, please, I want to hear it."

Biting her lower lip, Sybil proceeded. "Well, I had hoped that, if you still feel the same way you did when you dropped me off at nursing school, that perhaps…well…you and I…might…."

Her rambling made this moment even more precious to the Irishman. In a swift and singular motion, Tom cut Sybil off by pressing his lips against hers.

It was Sybil's turn to be taken off guard and for a brief moment, she stood stunned with this man's mouth on hers. But as reality sunk in, as she realized that this was not like the fantasies she had been entertaining for the better part of six months but that it was truly happening, she ran her hand along his cheek and moved her lips more possessively against Tom's.

So Tom and Sybil stood there in the middle of the train station, scores of passersby merely moving about in a blur. They were in a world of their own, a world that existed solely on the lips of the other and nowhere else. It was a world they had wanted to enter for longer than they both knew, but now that they were here, neither ever wanted to leave.

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_Autumn of 1921—Yorkshire, England_

In the years that passed, the Major and the Private grew closer as brothers-in-law, not just brothers-in-arms, keeping in close contact through letters and dinner parties at the Abbey, Locksley, and the Branson's abode in Dublin.

When Lady Edith and Sir Anthony married, it was Tom who stood at the baronet's side as his best man, and six months later, when Lady Sybil and Tom tied the knot in Ireland, Anthony took his place proudly beside the man who saved his life.

On this brisk October afternoon, Sybil and Tom had travelled to Locksley with their small brood of two, twins of two years named Eamon Anthony and Aoife Josephine, to assist Edith as she delivered her firstborn. Though the journey from Ireland was long, they wouldn't have missed it for the world.

After hours of labor, with Anthony pacing wildly in the library, comforted only by his brother-in-law's kind hand on his shoulder and a glass of scotch in his hand, a new baby boy entered the world.

A mix of fear and excitement, Isobel Crawley, acting nurse, escorted Anthony towards his master bedroom where his wife and son were waiting for him.

"Darling?" Edith whispered as she heard the door creak open. "Is that you?"

The scene that greeted the baronet's eyes made him weep unreservedly. He crossed the room and sat next to Edith, rubbing the baby's head as he placed a kiss on his wife's temple. "It is, my sweet one. And I see we have a new arrival, too?"

The baby cooed in his mother's arms, stretching his little arms out at the sound of the low timbre of his father's voice.

"We do. Anthony, meet your son," she murmured with maternal gentility.

The baronet surveyed the little boy, with his mother's reddish blonde tinted hair and his father's bright blue eyes. He was a dream. Anthony thought, in that moment, how blessed he was to be here in this moment, to cradle his wife in his arms as they greeted their newborn son.

And then he thought how it was all thanks to a brave Irishman who ran through a battlefield, through bullets and explosions and dirt to grab him, to carry him for miles and miles, and to bring him back to life. He would not be here without that man, without Private Tom Branson.

"What shall we name him, Anthony?" Edith cooed, looking up to her husband, deep in thought.

A lopsided grin crept up on Anthony's face, and he kissed his son and his wife with grateful appreciation, for he could think of only one name to give to his son.

"I think we should name him Thomas."


End file.
